The Emperor's Recruit
by Leth
Summary: A woman is led through a series of debacles, until her wits - or her kind - leads her to something far more dangerous
1. The Recruit

The Captain read the encrypted poem and saw nothing he disliked about Haelia Dhur. She was their only choice. She had the brains. She needed the job. And best yet, she was pretty. The Captain had a lightly drafted picture of her, and, whether it was the artist's talent or the woman's natural beauty, she was truly beautiful. Out of many thousand candidates, she was quite simply the best.

The Captain clinched two scrolls. One, with her complete and formal history. Another was quite different: in it were - all her misgivings, all her reservations of the emperor, her views of men, her thoughts and prayers as she prayed besides her virgin bed! Even the months of the moon, in which every woman gave parts of herself in blood were recorded as well. Likewise, the first scroll was magically sealed by a legitimate palm presser. The second scroll was by the Captain himself!

The Captain waited for the afternoon sun. There was no need to hide. No one could expect the Captain might be part of something so utterly hideous that to do so would mean death!

Slowly, he opened the first scroll, pulling out, "Haelia - Imperial Magistry Cyrodil."

He turned around.

The sounds stopped, the slight scent remained. The Captain saw an unmistaken beauty looking downwards, not to his face, as any servant. Yes, Haelia was beautiful. She was their woman.

"Haelia Dhur?" The Captain asked in politeness.

"Yes." They touched gently. Her hands were moist and soft, like a whore's hands. Of course, she was not. And if she were, her pay was far beyond the romping houses of Westerbrook, Slaywer, and Belkshire. Far beyond anything, with exception to the throne.

"Good to meet you. Aromac, of the southern crescents."

"My pleasure. I believe you know all about me." She stepped and knew the Captain could smell her.

They walked into the alleyway. The Captain briefly explained the darkness of the descent. The room they entered was larger and darker still. They passed through one corridor, through another alleyway, opened a hatch, and finally through several other passages until they reached a sublime light under a door. The Captain knocked five times briefly, afterwards, the door opened.

The Captain, who had clinched onto Haelia's arms, pressed her to a seat. Her typically warm smile was nullified by the darkness. There, they waited.

A man appeared.

The new shadow sat besides Haelia. The shadow came by the name of Oliveur Foematz, the son of the great fighters guild champion, the stealthy weaver of Tamriel. He who was the true controller of the present and future. He set his eyes on Haelia's darkened skin and bluish, mildly glowing eyes. There was laughter from his old elven throat.

At eight hundred, Oliveur was the eldest of all dark elves. He had seen the fall of four seperate kingdoms. And, had it not been for his actions, his words, Cyrodil might have been overrun by its provinces. The emperors were the commanders of armies, but Oliveur controlled the attachment of their throats. He had outlived several Septims, including the eldest and wisest Septim. And before this elder Septim had grown ripe and finally withered away in that short human vitality, his words were, "Promise me! Maintain the stability of empires, but do not spare its sons!" Oliveur intended to keep this promise.

And so it is here that _the_ wise met _the_ beautiful. His eyes bathed on her, and his smile was just as decadent. "Welcome." A brief pause. "Do you know why you are here?"

A smile emulated on her lips, "Yes." Her expression the Captain could easily tell was that she was desired. In fact, her background showed she had been approached by many, both imperial and otherwise. She had been told she was the best. She allowed it to show.

"Then let me briefly describe ourselves." Intervened the Captain. "Our company is two hundred years old. In the world of elves, it is newly formed, such as I. We hire no less than the best. We train our soldiers. We make profits, big time."

"What does it do exactly?"

"Ah, it is a brotherhood, but not so. Perhaps you had heard the Morag Tong guild? We are accustomed to such business, but we venture partly. Do not let our morality concern you, we are strictly for profit. Anything otherwise would be a fluke, or a cover."

Haelia at this point was not interested. She showed it by her standard pose, back upwards, arms in lap tightly, composed but otherwise unimpressed. As if to say: "There are many guilds such as you, what makes yours so great?" Of course, she did not say it. She merely pressed on, smiling.

"We've noticed your placements. Where did you learn such skills, again?"

"The Magistry." She notice both men winked. Not just any magistry, the Magistry. Meaning the oldest exist school in Cyrodil, where great men of all ages embarked their first journeys. Where many people of high existence taught there, and taught the next generation of adventurers and profit seekers.

"Okay, sera. Tell us of your family."

Haelia frowned. This she didn't expect to mention. "My familiy?"

"It's important we know where you come from, sera."

"My father died when I was twelve. My mother never existed. My brother..."

"Good. All good." Said Oliveur. It was time for the old master to speak. "We ask nothing but your loyalty, how well is it?"

The old man saw the girl's lips. She blinked, "My loyalty is to the emperor and nothing less. I am faithful only to he. I would die in his honor."

The old man watched. It was amazing. She kept her grace and cool amidst such a lie. Olivier had seen many lies in his life, but hers with such terrific speed and grace. Quite simply amazing. It was as if she had said, "My loyalty? Pah! Why, I'm no more than a profit-seeker! The emperor be damned. To oblivion!" Simply amazing. The girl was beautiful.

"Good!" Smiled the old elf. "Those with love are never to be trusted."

She could have swore, by what did he mean? _Did he truly see through her?_

"You see, we never hire those who abide by the law. We prefer passions be kept secret, preferably hidden away in a darkness no thing can intrude, not even the soul itself!" A laugh, "That is the way to make business, and profits!"


	2. A New Bride and Widow

Cyrodil in all its magic. The caverns were bred with magic. Its streets combed with travelers of many races. Cyrodil was indeed the capital of the world.

The sun shined darts of existence. Into the windowpanes they went, flowing like liquid gold down the necks of youths and children Below, morning had already hit the crowded streets. Soon, the vanguards of a machine began churning. A great process, one that would eventually spread outward into distant lands, where foreigners seek profits and merchandise which were intricately related to the tastes and fashions of Cyrodil.

On the other hand, youths of more richer existence saw their first daylight, too. They were woken by maids (sometimes elven). These maids were not pretty however. In fact, they were ugly, or simply plain, for the fair maidens took more lucrative professions. And as for the pretty, one kind young pair of eyes sat closely besides a bedside wine table. She glanced at the numerous liquors and wondered who could conquer such tastes. Her fingers touched each wine. One by one, they reeked of death.

"Bah!" cried a weak voice besides her.

The young maiden quickly reacted to her lover's needs. "I'm here, Deremor. I'll never leave you."

The old man with sickened lips and pale face reacted to her kind words with a smile that seems too grotesque. "I see you're here, Delia." Cough. He coughed.

The woman suddenly felt tension mount, and twisted her head so as not to reveal her face. She felt tension for she feared he might suspect that she was not his lover.

Her fear was doused however, when he turned his eyes towards his remaining bottles of old wine. "Allow me one last taste." He begged, as if she were truly who he thought.

She obeyed. It was ironic. From the Marshlands the vines grew. And it was exactly the same shadowy plunge he would enter if he drank once more. This time, his health may not save him.

Haelia watched slowly. Soon she would be the inheritor of a thousand acres of land, fourteen slaves, and an oxen named Durb, which the old man had loved.

By noon, of the same day, he expired. Death was peaceful and easy. Money was easily transferred. The plot was in the making.


End file.
